Smoking Gun
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: Brownie wants a meet-up with Doyle, but Doyle remembers the last time. Was this another trap?


Doyle was looking forward to a hot bath and a meal at the end of a long day. It had been a maddening few days of trying to pick up the threads that Cowley wanted and his agents were unable to find for him. Cowley's frustration at his agents' failures was affecting everyone. As Doyle neared home, he got a call on the R/T.

"4.5, someone called Brownie wants to speak to you," Alex informed him.

Doyle sighed. The last time Brownie spoke to him it was to lure him to some docks where an enemy had tried to kill him. Admittedly, Brownie had had a gun to his head when he'd contacted Doyle with the meet-up details, so Doyle felt he could be forgiven for that one.

"Put him on," Doyle conceded wearily.

"Ray, it's Brownie. Look, I know it's been a long time, but can you meet me? It's urgent." Brownie sounded nervous, but then Brownie always sounded nervous. It was his nature and the nature of his 'job' - whatever that may be at any given moment.

"Why the meeting?"

There was a long pause on the line. Doyle's suspicious mind wondered whether Brownie was being coerced again and his coercer was giving him a script. "I, I can't say on an open line."

_Fair enough_, thought Doyle, _but on the other hand_ …

"Where?"

Brownie quickly gave an address. "Half an hour," he gasped.

"Half an hour!" protested Doyle. "Nearer an hour."

"Half an …"

But Doyle had already put the radio down. He wasn't in the mood for negotiations. He could have made it in time, but firstly there was a principle here. And, secondly, he didn't want to go alone. His instinct was on high alert. It felt like a trap - like the last time. He wasn't going to be a lamb to the slaughter again. He reached for the radio and then remembered that Bodie was on joint surveillance with Jax and Meecher. He'd been a naughty boy (in Cowley's book) and so his punishment was to continue a boring op which, after ten days, hadn't yielded a damn thing. Doyle thought hard as he slowed the car down. It was too far to return to HQ and then to his meeting point, so he radioed in and asked if any agent was in his area. Alex told him that there was a pair of operatives on surveillance over on Norwood High Street. Doyle was experienced enough not to ask for specifics over the line, but did ask who the pair were - McLeod and Reynolds. Doyle's heart sank. They were not his best mates. Of all the agents in Cowley's squad, he would have preferred neither one of them to hold his hand. He swallowed his pride (reminding himself that a proud agent could be a dead one if he didn't ask for back-up when needed - Words of Wisdom, Cowley, verse 10) and he headed for the high street.

Doyle parked up and surveyed his surroundings while pretending to examine a grocer's pavement display. He was weighing up, not the onions, but where a pair of CI5 agents may be holed up. Making up his mind, he slipped round a back alley and took the communal stairs two at a time. Reaching the landing, he wandered along the flats above the shops. It was dark now (and wet, and cold) so he ignored the flats with lights on and tellies blaring. Those quiet and in darkness got Doyle's attention and he hunkered down quickly to open each vacant letterbox in turn. When he thought he'd arrived at the right flat which he judged his CI5 colleagues to be using, he drew out his skeleton key and made quick and silent work of the lock. He tip-toed in, his confidence at the right flat increasing. Sure enough, there was the pair of them at the front living room window, one with binoculars. Doyle entered. They still hadn't noticed him. He quietly picked up their log sheet.

He couldn't see much of their writings in the shadows but announced clearly, "Not much to show for three days' observations."

The two agents jumped a foot in the air. McLeod swallowed the cheroot he was smoking. He coughed violently while trying to swear at the same time. His mate did the swearing for him. Anger swept across the room like hot lava, but it was water off Doyle's back. He lounged lazily against the wall, the log sheet still in his hand, grinning. He felt good for the first time that day. He'd got them fair and square. It appealed to the childishness in him.

"I need a nursemaid. You'll do," he said, looking at Reynolds. "Tooley Street. Snout," he added curtly.

Reynolds told Doyle in no uncertain terms what he thought of that, then added, "Where's your boyfriend then?"

"Soliciting." Doyle was still grinning and refusing to be riled by this pair.

McLeod, at last finding some of his vocal chords, asked, "Are you here as Cowley's messenger boy?"

If Doyle lied and this pair found out, he could live with it. If word got back to Cowley, however, that his name was being used in vain there'd be hell to pay - and McLeod and Reynolds would rejoice at him being found out and brought down a peg or two. Doyle had to tread carefully.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't know where to find you, would I? Alex isn't going to announce your love nest to the world, is he?" He smiled insincerely.

The pair looked at him with open suspicion and something close to loathing. Anyone coming into this exchange could not have believed that these men were all meant to be on the same side. Finding no holes in Doyle's statement, they had to believe that at least _someone_ had told him where to come for help and that could only have been Cowley - couldn't it? There was a pause as the balance of power made its decision. Doyle gave it a nudge by peeling himself off the wall.

"Come on. Only half an hour, then you can get back to, well, whatever it is you two are meant to be doing - apart from polluting the atmosphere." Doyle coughed and waved his arm theatrically to emphasise his point in the dark, smog-filled room.

As he left, he hoped fervently that Reynolds would be following on his heels. He had no authority to order any agent about, nor could he threaten them with anything (though he'd love to find a lever), so tricks were all he had in a poor hand. So he was relieved to hear Reynolds padding behind him on the stairs. He wouldn't be a great helpmeet if things did get sticky, but any port in a storm and all that.

They arrived at the rendez-vous around 40 minutes after Doyle had received the call. He radioed in that he'd reached the address and added that Reynolds had agreed to go with him. He made it sound as though Reynolds had been straining at the leash to help and protect 4.5. Instead, the journey had been in a strained silence. The house they were to go to was dark and seemingly empty when they arrived at the front door. Doyle knocked and rang the bell. He got no reply. He tried the door and was suspicious that it opened easily. He called out again, gun drawn. He turned back briefly and saw that Reynolds was also on high alert. His face was set in grim determination, his feelings for (or against) Doyle forgotten for the moment. Doyle had to admit, in his calmer moments, that Reynolds was a trained and professional agent - as they all were. Petty feelings had no place here. They cautiously crept along the hallway. Doyle crashed quickly into the living room. Empty. Reynolds was ahead of him now and tried the kitchen. Nothing. He checked the back door. It was locked. They met at the foot of the stairs, still in silence, and worked their way up the stairs to the landing, straining their ears for sound and their eyes against the darkness. Doyle crashed into the first bedroom, while Reynolds simultaneously took the second. There was a sudden and loud exchange of gunfire. Doyle raced into the bedroom that Reynolds had entered. He saw his colleague spread out on the floor, a gunman was clutching his shoulder. Seeing a second CI5 agent entering he took aim, but Doyle got there first and finished off what Reynolds had started. Learning from his Parker experience, where he'd dedicated his thoughts to his dead partner instead of professionally searching the building, Doyle wasn't going to repeat the same mistake. Reynolds would have to wait a few moments while Doyle checked the only remaining place - the bathroom. He quickly raced down the short landing to the room at the far end and was about to enter when he noticed a thin rope across the entrance about a foot from the ground. He backed away immediately, almost falling over his own feet. He didn't understand the rope but felt instinctively that there must be a reason for it - a sinister reason. The view of the bath and shower was blocked by the shower curtain so, for reassurance, he blasted a few shots into the curtain in case a gunman happened to be lurking behind it. Satisfied, he turned back and checked the attic hatch quickly before heading back to Reynolds. The hatch appeared locked, so no snipers there then. Doyle shouldered his gun and entered the bedroom again to check Reynolds. He couldn't find a pulse. His own pulse quickened. He gently turned him over on to his back and saw blood spreading at a great rate across his shirt. It was already saturated and the carpet too. Doyle was panting now as he tore at Reynolds' shirt. The sniper had used a dum-dum bullet and Reynolds had been no match for it. Doyle swore under his breath, tears close to the surface. He tried again for a heart-beat but knew it was a forlorn hope. Shaken, he radioed in to HQ for an ambulance. He took Reynolds' hand. He didn't know why - not then or later - but wanted to be with him somehow. It occurred to him, after the initial shock had passed, that in all other circumstances this would have been Bodie's hand he was holding. It was only by chance that Bodie had been elsewhere on another assignment.

_Don't think about it_, Doyle murmured to himself as he got up from the sodden carpet and went over to the sniper. He recognised the man as Carl Box. Doyle had helped to put his brother and another member of the family - uncle? - away for a long time for various nefarious activities including drug dealing, prostitution (including young girls) and so on and so forth. There hadn't been enough evidence to nail Carl himself.

"You bastard!" Doyle snarled, his voice breaking. He kicked the man hard in chest. The man of course didn't react. Doyle didn't miss his target. Doyle hadn't liked Reynolds, but he certainly wouldn't have wished this on him. He made a promise to himself that he'd be the one to break the news to McLeod. After all, this was his fault wasn't it?

As he waited for the ambulance, he realised that he'd have a bit of explaining to do to Cowley. He'd want to know how Doyle had found his agents so easily with so little information to go on. McLeod would want to know that, too, but that was something Doyle would want to keep to himself. It wasn't his eye that Doyle had been putting to the letter boxes when he checked the high street flats for the pair. It was his nose. McLeod smoked so heavily that all Doyle had to do was check the empty flats for the strong smell of cheroots. It had been too easy.


End file.
